and the wheels on the bus go round and
round. but not really. in this reality they lurch and skid and stutter,
shutter to a grinding halt and all the hands hanging from rafters
turn to fists, knuckles clenched in the cold like teeth, row after row
of pianoless keys, sheathed in fuzz fabric leather lace, all in a line.
but not evenly dispersed, simply displayed wherever they stand.
meanwhile the air fills with noise: the gurgle of gears, a constant
buzzing that seems to come from light alone, white fluorescent bulbs,
machine belly burps, and everyone looks around, not quite sure what’s
right, what’s wrong, just waiting for the next last stop when the voice
of god says their time has come. move along. step down. doors open
inward. be careful. brace yourself. it felt so good to hold on for a while,
let go and be guided. no questions asked. now you’re on your own.
find the way.
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